One Familiar Face
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: The past in alive in our memories-- but Jack suddenly finds that what he remembers doesn't match what he knows to be true. (Slash; JD)
1. The White Room

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One Familiar Face

By Meredith Bronwen Mallory

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Author Website: 

Rating: R

Pairing: Jack/Daniel

Category: Slash

Date: August 27th, 2004

Status: Incomplete

Season/Spoilers: Through mid season five.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Oiii... After over a month, my muse has finally returned from Japan. (I guess she took the scenic route home. XX) And what does she do to me? She gives me a new story instead of letting me finish one of countless others. ; I'm really uncertain about this piece because its.... well... it's weird. But the bunny has been around since this time last summer, so I guess it isn't going to die any time soon. I'm about a third of the way in to the fic (other chapters are at the beta's), so feedback would help immensely. Seriously, I'll wash your feet and everything. Thanks to Ayashii for the amazingly quick beta, and to my darling Leigh, who is leaving me for college. sniffle Thank you so much for taking the time to look at my story.

-Meredith

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"Here in the brave new world's embrace,

I watch the parade begin.

Searching for one familiar face,

and I wonder where I fit in.

How will I know if there's a place,

for me in the brave new world?"

-"Brave New World", Styx

DATE BEGUN: August 27th, 2004

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****

One Familiar Face 1/?

by Meredith Bronwen 

Jack dreamt of a white room.

Of the white room, his room at Grandpa's cabin, the stage of all summer evenings and dreams as far back as he could remember. A room so white that it was blue when the sun went down and the shadows crept in, falling across the bedspreads and coloring everything like rain. The roof came to an arch, and Jack's bed was the one furthest from the window, it's mate an empty testament to brothers who'd come a generation earlier. Like no where else, this room was home to him-- but in the dream, it was wrong.

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(No, no. It's alright, all of it is right, and you have just forgotten.)

He was seventeen, stretching out his soul in his lengthening limbs, sprawled inelegantly across the bed. The sun was going down over the lake, crickets so loud they were like bells.

"Are you asleep?" he asked quietly. A rustle came from the other bed, the bed that should have been empty, because Jack was an only child and never shared a room. He watched the silhouette of his companion with a smile-- how the other boy's hair fell in his face as he reached for another quilt.

"Obviously not." The voice was well known, comforting, despite the alien context; it was like one of those mirrored pictures, in which you had to find the one thing that was just a little off.

"Cold, are you?" he asked, rolling on his side and lifting up his covers. He could just make out the responding blush in the dim light. "If you go to sleep under all those quilt, you'll sweat yourself to death," he put on his best winning grin, "come in here with me." His-- yes, his friend's blue gaze was at once pleased and embarrassed. The crickets swelled in the long pause that followed, but the other boy finally slid out of his bed, putting only two footsteps on the cool wood floor as he jumped onto Jack's mattress.

"Alright." There was a smile in that half-familiar face, softened by youth and by trust. He felt the other's happiness vibrating in-between his ribs and could not stop himself from embracing the too skinny body tightly. Thin arms came around to hold him as well, and they landed on the pillows with a thump. The other boy said, "John...", but Jack just buried his nose in the soft chestnut hair, tickling a little at the small of his friend's back before curling around him to sleep.

"Doesn't bother you, does it?" he asked, shifting a little under the covers.

"No," he felt more than heard the words. "'Night, Johnny."

This was where the dream always ended, because the dream was wrong and the dream was right-- it canceled itself into nothingness and knocked the breath out of Jack's lungs.

He said, "Goodnight, Danny-boy."

#(#)#

"I think I'm loosing it," Jack remarked conversationally to his reflection as he began to shave. "You know, more than a little bonzo? Because getting old and stuck in the past is one thing, and it's a whole 'nother to..." He eyed his twin with disgust, "Well, you know." The cool and careful bite of the razor helped to lessen the dream's power, so that he could almost believe it didn't matter. Snorting as he wiped away the remains of shaving cream, he nodded to himself, "Yeah, don't matter at all, old son. Just an indicator of my deteriorating mental state.

He listened to the house settle as he ate breakfast, flipping idly through the paper. Maybe he'd just had one turn too many. Time -looping, goa'uld-fighting, gate-hoping-- hell, when you looked at it like that, it was no surprise he'd sprung a leak. Not to mention he'd had his brain probed by the lovely Anise... Freya... whoever the hell she was. Maybe she'd microwaved his gray cells while she was at it; God knew her machine couldn't figure anything to save it's life.

"Yeah, more than I should," he mocked himself. "Keep your eyes on the girl-- pay no attention to the archaeologist behind the curtain." To be fair, Carter wasn't a girl, she was... Carter. Out of bounds, the way certain other people should be. Certain other people didn't follow the rules, didn't stay in their nice little niche of best-friend-surrogate-brother/son. Certain other people had to touch everything in Jack, make him care and want so much it hurt until, a year later, he barely had the comfort of the friendship he'd had before. Jack rolled his eyes and stretch, depositing dishes in the sink and glanced at the clock. "Hi-ho, hi-ho," he whistled, grabbing his keys.

At the corner of Mason and Bijou, Jack was struck by a fresh wave of not-memory, of dream-time feeling; Daniel, laughing against his shoulder, a warm and well-known weight. Brave and skinny and bespectacled.

"Stop it," Jack bit out as the light changed to green, "or you're gonna be seeing a whole 'nother white room, entirely."

But for some time now, Daniel had been in his memory, in places he'd never visited, in times he'd never seen, and Jack could barely swallow down the worry that washed against his mind.

#(#)#

The darkness was familiar now-- so much so that it was no longer a shock to waken to it. Jonathan O'Neill breathed out slowly, fighting the dull sense of panic and disorientation as he leaded back against the cool metallic walls of his cell. He felt stupid for having believed in that brief moment of hope as he rose to consciousness, that perhaps, when he opened his eyes, he would be greeted with the familiar lines and colors of his room in his Grandfather's Minnesota cabin.

'No such luck, John-old-son,' he thought at himself, almost opening his mouth to speak aloud. He swallowed dryly and closed it again-- he had decided early on that he would not give his captors anything; information, tears or his own terror. That's what Pa said, after all-- just name, rank and serial number. John smiled just a little to himself, wishing he had something more than just his name. Time stretched and warped in the darkness of his cell, but John kept his mouth firmly closed over everything he felt, staring into the non-light and feeling along the walls. Curled up in a corner, he felt around in his pockets, comforting himself with the weight of his Swiss Army knife, though he doubted realistically that it would do him any good.

'Details,' he reminded himself, 'keep the details fresh.' He went over them obsessively, looking for some clue he'd missed, some magic cornerstone that would bring logic and reality firmly back into place. It had been summer, and he was seventeen-- such a delicious word, that-- soon to start his Senior year in Chicago. His final year of school was as distant and unbelievable as blacktop wavering in the heat, across the gulf of the summer months. He was aware, vaguely, that the corridors of his childhood were narrowing; an awareness eclipsed by a heady sense of freedom. A summer all alone up at Grandpa's cabin, nothing to do but fish, read comic books and sleep much, much later than his Pa ever let him get away with. Mother off to some conference on Mathematical Theory, Pa still on active duty in Cambodia.

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(No one is gonna know to look for me!)

'Stupid kid,' John thought at himself, 'you're seventeen. Have some balls about this.' He'd been on his own alright, relishing the third day of his long, singular summer, riding his cranky old bike into town for some Cola and a chance to chat with someone about last night's game. Sort of whistling, determinedly treading over the bumpy dirt road, being the person he was when no one else was around.

__

(And then what happened?)

John's laugh sounded strange in his dry throat. 'Well, you see officer, there two big guys-- and I do mean big guys-- jumped me from the woods. Hell yes, I could identify them in a line-up! They had gold tatoo-thingies on their foreheads, big honkin' spear sticks and expressions that told me I was in some serious shit. They looked like rejects from some B movie about the Amazon, yah know? Or that what's-her-face Space Queen that they showed as a double feature back at the Esquire.' He imagined the dubious officers face with some despair, his amusement at his situation purely a ploy to keep from screaming.

'Then they shot me with this laser-thing,' he thought with almost fresh astonishment, 'and I was out like a light. I come to and I'm here-- where ever the hell 'here' is-- in the dark, and they only feed me with they feel like it.' He clenched his fists against his cheeks, roughly, before placing his hands along the line where floor met the wall. No prison was perfect, right? If he could just find a door, or a crack, or something that wasn't this awful, thick nothing...

But he'd been around the small cell at least twice already, and found nothing to give him hope. The food came from somewhere, but by the time he heard the strange buzzing that heralded it's arrival, it was too late to search for where it might came from. All he could do was feel around for the tray, often knocking containers over, shoveling the strangely textured mush into his mouth, too hungry to worry about poison. Occasionally, he thought he heard labored breathing or the sound of sniffles, like an echo of his own despair.

'Pa,' he thought miserably, with little actual direction. His father was a lifelong Navy man, perfectly at home aboard the gray expanse of a battleship, shoulders squared and strong with responsibility. For a moment, John wanted to be small again, so he could be carried on those shoulders, so that he could believe implicitly that Pa would come for him, would come and make the Bad Guys pay. The strike of his own fist against the wall surprised him, and John bit heavy into his lip.

__

(Don't panic, please don't panic, because I sure has hell know how to start but I dunno how to stop...)

He moved along the wall methodically, blinking against the sting of saltwater in his eyes.

'I'll get out of here. Betcha god damn I will.'

Having almost completed the circuit of the room once more, John sighed heavily. He was tempted to lay down and sleep once more, having no other way to pass the time, but he pushed himself onward. Nothing could have surprised him more than touching upon a texture warm and slightly soft-- he cried out, shuffling backwards a little.

A quiet voice, like a woodwind, whispered, "Who's there?"

"I'm here," he said, searching for the sound. He felt around until he located the texture once more-- the shape of a finger, protruding through the smallest of vents in wall. John swallowed hard, "Please tell me that's still attached."

"Yes." The finger wiggled obligingly-- long and slender.

"Thank God," he said the words with more reverence than he ever had in church. John pressed his cheek to the floor, speaking close to the vent.

"Are you a real person?" the voice asked, laced with caution and a fear John well understood-- he'd wondered, too, what would happen when he could stand the close and the dark and the unknown no longer.

"Of course I am," he said, pretending to be indignant. "I've been all over this cell. I don't know how I missed this."

"Can you see anything?"

"No," John reflexively shook his head.

"It's easy to get turned around in the dark," the voice offered, and John clearly remembered falling asleep for completing his check at least once. The finger pulled back through the vent, but the voice seemed closer-- probably, the other person was mimicking John's position to hear better. "What's your name?"

"I'm Jonathan... John. O'Neill." He felt the barest hint of warmth from his companion's breath; they were close, separated by the wall and the endless black.

"Daniel Jackson. It's nice to meet you," Daniel's laugh was breathless, "I mean, really, really nice to meet you."

"Damn straight," John said appreciatively. "Do you know how we got here?"

A pause, a heavy sigh. "I was on my way... well, home. Billy Allen and Robert Mills were after me, so I wasn't really looking were I was going. I bumped into these two--"

"Really big guys, right? Dressed up like it was Halloween?" John frowned towards the unknown face, "Why were those boys chasing you, Danny?"

For a moment, John was sure the other boy wouldn't answer. Then, "They always chase me, if I don't beat it out of school quick enough." Danny's voice was matter of fact, "I'm a geek."

"Oh," said John, with an understanding that didn't really reach his conscious mind. "But the guys that jumped you-- I'm right, aren't I?"

"Actually," Danny said philosophically, "their garb was surprisingly accurate to early Egyptian costume, but... yeah. They were big. Lifted me straight off me feet by the collar."

"You are a geek," John said, briefly taken aback. The silence from the other side of the vent was thick and maybe a little sour. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean nothing by it."

"S'alright, I suppose," a sigh, "I told you."

"Nothing wrong with that, I guess," John tried to be comforting, poking a finger through the vent so that they touched briefly once more. "I mean, now we know these guys have something to do with Egypt, probably. But who from Egypt wants to kidnap a couple of boys?"

"I was born in Egypt," Danny considered, "I can't really think of any reason or organization that fits with this scenario. I mean, I'm not worth much... unless... Are you someone important?"

"Nope," John laughed, "the son of a Naval officer and a Math whiz." The other boy made a sound of understanding. "Do you still live in Egypt?"

"No," there was a hit of sadness in the tones, "Now I live in New York." Danny seemed to think for a moment, and John imagined he could almost hear wheels turning, despite the lack of expression to pin it with. "Have you met the woman yet?"

"What woman?"

"The redheaded one, in the... well, it's not like you can miss her," Danny said uncomfortably.

"She do something to you, Danny?" the other boy bit his lip, hearing more fear than Daniel's local bullies had inspired in the carefully spoken words. The rasp of slightly labored breathing held for a moment before Danny spoke again.

"She touched me," he said quietly. John wedged two fingers through the vent to curl around the nearest one of Danny's he could find. "You know... down there."

John swallowed hard, "Danny... how old are you?"

"Sixteen," Danny said, clearly a little offended. "It's not like I don't know what sex is, but... I don't like what she did to me, even if it was just touching." A deep breath, "I had a foster brother like that, once."

"Your parents are dead?" John asked, instantly clamping his lips together. 'You're a heel' he thought at himself with all the force of a fist.

"Yeah. When I was eight."

"Shit, Danny. If you don' want her to touch you, or anyone to touch you-- that's that," John muttered, feeling a ferocity that surprised him. Daniel's voice shaped kind words-- the kind of voice you hear in temples and halls filled with books. "Some guys say they'll take it from any girl, but... Jesus. How old is she?"

"I don't know, thirty?"

"Perverted bitch. You kick her?"

"She kind of had those guys with her, you know. I'd be a smear on the wall when they finished with me."

"Superior firepower," John said knowingly. "This is crazy. This is really crazy shit."

"I've only seen her once," Danny said almost comfortingly, though just who it was supposed to soothe, John didn't know. "She called me her 'Beloved'." The shiver was in his voice.

"Eww," the other boy sympathized. "You're not even legal!"

Patiently, "Neither are you."

"I will be soon," he replied triumphantly. "And even if you were legal, it'd still be really gross." He thought for a moment, "Do think these people are white slavers? Communists?" He tried to laugh, but couldn't, "Aliens?"

"Dunno," Danny said despondently, "their technology is far superior than anything I've ever seen. I mean, she has this thing like on Star Trek. It beams things in and out!"

"I think..." John fought down a sense of wild, crippling disbelief. "I think we're really outgunned here, Danny."

Spoken with a hope almost dowsed, "What are we going to do?"

"We found each other-- got lucky with that," he tried to be encouraging."

"Yeah," Danny swallowed audibly, "maybe we'll get lucky again."

They lay there, taking comfort in each other's physical presence, for a very long time.

#(#)#

END NOTE: Thank you so much for taking the time to look at this first part. If I could trouble you a bit more to send feedback, I should be dearly grateful.

Plus, I'll give you Teal'c cookies. So who can resist?


	2. Eyes Only

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One Familiar Face 2/?

by Meredith Bronwen

Sometimes, if Jack took a step back-- just a small step, really-- from himself, he could see the whole of his life laid out like a city between the hills. Like the Chicago of his youth, seen from the roof of the building that housed the O'Neill's modest apartment. He would go up there at night, riding the rickety, creaking elevator like a rocket, and sit against the chain-link fence, looking down. He'd put all his weight against that fence, daring it to break, looking at the sleek and chrome of passing cars, until he at last tired of the game and, wrapping his arms around his knees, at last took a look at the city itself. Lights, yellow, orange, red and tasteless neon, hovering in the smoky, half-darkness. Buildings that continued to climb, and others that were dwarfed beneath him. Pale television ghosts, flickering in rooms across the alleyway. The fire-escape, deplored by almost every mother in the complex, was his playground-- he swung along the cold black bars and ramparts with his friends, aiming rubber band guns, and was never afraid of looking down. From his rooftop perch, it often seemed impossible that the Chicago of darkness and lights was the same one who's streets he navigated, who's crumbling PS-112 he attended.

It seemed impossible, too, as he swung slightly down from his truck and into the crisp morning air of Cheyenne mountain's restricted access zone, that his world could be composed of anything more than the Earth on its lonely access. Taking a step back meant disbelief, because-- honestly-- who ever really wants to consider the world beyond the azure layer of the sky. In Chicago, he could see only the brightest stars, believing implicitly that the others were out there, would be waiting for him when he returned to the cleaner skies of Minnesota. Looking at the world like this, he simply had to take for granted that he was doing what he'd been doing for the past five years. Regularly flushing his molecular structure through ancient alien pathways, standing on planets you could never see with the naked eye. He'd never planned for this and, mostly, it no longer phased him. But every once in a while, his complacency would grab his shoulders and pull him back, hissing, 'look, man, look' like the masked figure of death in come arid Greek play.

You just didn't plan on certain things, Jack decided, nodding to the painfully young SF manning the entrance terminal. He presented his I.D. to the main desk, sighing with long-learned patience as the elevator began its long descent. Being embroiled in an intergalactic war against parasites was just one of them. Never expected to outlive your child, to end a marriage you once had such faith in, to fall in love again and have it be with a...

Well.

Jack shook his shoulders, as if to dislodge the grip of the thing forcing him to look at the wider scope, settling back into the low streets and corners of everyday life with no small relief.

SG-1 wasn't due out for another two days, so the only things waiting for Jack in his spartan, expressionless office were a stack of reports and a gentle admonition from Hammond to take advantage of the light duty and get some things done.

'Sire, yes, sir,' Jack smirked, filling his coffee mug on pure reflex. Copies of reports by Daniel, Teal'c and Carter on their latest adventure were dutifully lined up in his inbox; concise, professional, and so completely different it made Jack smile.

Step out of the gate, kids! Another planet of trees, trees, and-- comeon, how'dya guess?-- more trees. Some very comely natives, undisturbed by their 'god', who continue to worship remembered terror.

Same planet, same people-- but not. Daniel sees the independent development of Central American cultures, on par with perhaps the eighteen hundreds on earth, without the interference of Spanish conquistadors. Teal'c sees little strategic value, , though he does note that the System Lord the natives worship is at least a century dead, and their main concern is now any Goa'uld that might take interest in the abandoned territories. Carter sees Naquada in them thar hills. Teal'c wrote with the same precision he took into battle, each strange Tau'ri letter formed with learned skill, the characters even and almost printer-style. Daniel's cursive seemed to move, drawing one's eye along the page, 's's and 'q's quirky, his signature more like Arabic than legible English. Carter's handwriting was tight and fierce, pen digging into the paper, words just slightly skewed from where she would copy down and not look at her duplicate.

Jack settled down in his chair, flipping through his teammates observations before finally settling down to sum up the mission-- and any further involvement with PX-9830, in his own, angled hand.

He worked through lunch, raising his head from a packet of supply forms only when his knees began to protest their long-held position. Stretching slightly, he looked at the clock, then at the half-eaten Milky-way tossed to the side of his desk. He was halfway there when when it occurred to him that he'd taken the turn to Daniel's office, rather than the commissary. Annoyed, but unsurprised, he shook his head without faltering once, wondering how the hell his was supposed to (fix? cure? defuse?... what?) this thing if his subconscious insisted on parrying every attempt to distance Daniel with an equal and opposite act of affection. Yell at Daniel, take him out for a beer; say he didn't want to hear it, then-- on the gate ramp-- pat the other man's shoulder and say, 'nice save back there'. If Jack himself felt like one of those dumb, bright-red yo-yo's, he couldn't fault Daniel's occasional suspicious glance as it clawed into his chest.

But there he'd be, flopped down next to Daniel on the couch, perched on some log in front of a fire, or stretched out next to the younger man in some alien long house-- it would be fine, great even, just line old times. Then his fingers would ache, or the light would play on Daniel's cheek, and he'd be ensnared all over again. He'd reach out to...

'Look, don't touch,' his mother's voice said suddenly, echoing with detachment in his mind. An aunt, with endless rainbowed glass closed off in a display case, 'Eyes only.' Jack shook his head, though whether to dispel the memories or the sudden itching of his palms, he didn't know. Funny-- you grew up, all the while collecting junk that rose to the surface when you least needed it.

'Daniel, you wanna come over tonight?'

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(But, oh, every Sunday Pa was home, Jack would find himself in the echoing basement of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, playing with the clip on his annoying, cheesy bow-tie. Miss Peters, with her ageless, freckled face and empty hands, watching her students with nervous eyes. Hell was very real to her-- so much so that Jack had almost believed she'd seen it, when he was still young and able to believe in anything at all.

'If you are tempted, you must remove the temptation.')

'Daniel, lets catch a game, huh?'

_(The word 'queer', spat in the crowded bar. A pretty boy with dark hair, no more than twenty, in the shadow of someone Jack definitely knew from Academy. An impatient sound from the airman beside him. 'Come on, Jack.'_

He was a only a cadet, so he walked away and never said a thing.')

Yeah, you collected junk-- your parents stuffed your head full of it-- just one more clean pair of underwear you might need at college-- your teachers, coaches, instructors throwing in their nicknacks, friends contributing change and sticky candy that never really washed out.

No wonder he had a headache most days.

"Daniel," Jack managed to greet warmly, strolling into the other man's cramped office. The walls leaned and groaned against the numerous shelves and cases stacked against them-- the main table was only there in theory, under the spread of papers and reference books. His teammate was hunched over a small section of tablet, eyes flickering between the artifact and his own, careful but hasty notes.

"Jack," he said, and the other man only widened his smile, hiding the instinctive flinch at the surprise in Daniel's voice.

"You hungry for lunch?"

The blue eyes blinked carefully, "Lunch?"

"Oh, you know," Jack began plopping some wayward pens back into their container, eyes on Daniel's computer and its endless dancing Egyptians. "That ritual, middle of the day, in which we Earthlings partake of edible foodstuffs."

"Ja-ack," Daniel drew the word out, snorting, "Is there such a thing as non edible foodstuffs?" He stepped away from the table, crossing his arms, and Jack knew the battle was already won.

_(The war, too, if you'll but admit it. You can see the way the tides are turning, but you'll fight to the bitter end, forgetting this is not an enemy, but a friend.)_

"Sure," the Colonel rolled his shoulders, "sushi, for one. Also asparagus and my Aunt Cindy's fruitcake." He leaned over a little, resting his chin in his hands. "What do you say?"

"Wow," Daniel said, glancing at his watch, "yeah, I guess so." He motioned towards the tablet, 'This is really fascinating-- a cross pollination of Eskimo and Japanese cultures; not my specialty, obviously, but still very interesting when you consider..."

"Earth to Planet Daniel," Jack waved a hand, "lunch, not lecture." He took the other man by the arm

_("look, don't touch"_

**--oh, just shut up.--)**

and towed him gently towards the door.

"Alright, I'm thinking." John tapped his chin, despite the fact the gesture could not be seen. "Here you go-- who wins in a fight, Batman or Superman?"

Danny made a gently disgusted noise, "What kind of a question is that?"

"A very relevant question," John sniffed. The other boy made a sound of consideration in the back of his throat, and John could hear his fingers tapping against the floor in a way that told him Danny was thinking. He looked determinedly through the darkness which, while still thick, seemed somehow trivialized beside the comfort of another human voice.

"Batman," Danny answered at last. "Maybe in the first fight, Superman would win, but once Batman did his research, he'd figure out a device to utilize Kryptonite, and that would be the end of that."

"S'what I thought, too," John said approvingly.

"Favorite time of year?" the younger boy inquired.

"Winter," he answered easily. "Christmas, New Years and hockey season. What's not to love?"

"The cold?" Danny suggested. "I like summer."

"Yeah," John sighed, "and here we are missing it! I didn't want to get out of school just to be kidnapped by a bunch of weirdoes with weird body art."

"Doesn't really bother me-- missing Summer, not the kidnapping, I mean," Danny said hastily.

"Foster parents?"

"Yeah. Plus, I like school."

"You are weird," John laughed, "My favorite subject is lunch."

The other boy made a rude noise, "Oh, please."

"Alright--" John conceded, "so I like the part of science where we study Astronomy, and I don't have any problems with cutting into pig fetuses or anything... can't stand math."

"I'm okay in Math, but I don't like it," Danny admitted. "My favorite subject is history."

"Yeah, there's a surprise," John smiled despite himself, glad his friend couldn't see it, "but you're gonna be an archaeologist, so you should like learning. Me? I'm gonna go into the military."

"The Navy, like your Dad?"

"Nope, I wanna fly-- maybe Pa'll be more open to me joining up now that the war's over." John frowned as he listened for Danny's reply. The moments seemed to trickle by, rife with Daniel's thoughts-- the hum of which John seemed able to hear but not decipher-- until the older boy almost feared this was it. All around the mulberry bush-- pop goes the delusion! He'd be alone again.

"... What war?"

"What do you mean 'what war'?" John asked, surprised, "The war. Vietnam."

Danny paused carefully, "The Vietnam war is over."

"No shit," came the reply, "S'what I'm telling you. My Pa's finishing up in Cambodia. He'll be back early September, latest."

"No, John," Danny said, sounding a little exasperated, "The Vietnam has been over for years."

"It has not--"

"Who's president?" the younger boy demanded.

"Nixon--"

Danny plowed on, "When were you taken?"

"I told ya," John muttered, frustrated, "June 10th."

"I mean what year," the last word seemed to echo between John's ears.

He said, quietly, "1973." And then, "Shit, Danny... are you telling me..."

"I was taken June 11th," Danny said, voice breaking with the effort to be calm, "1983."

__

(That's it, Johnny-- you've really lost it now. Maybe all those comic books really were that bad for you. Maybe you've got some sick growth in your brain, and you're really lying, mouth open and drooling, in the kitchen, and no one will find you 'til Miss Brant bothers to do the weekly checkup she promised your Pa. Won't that be a sight!)

Except that wasn't true, because he couldn't come up with this stuff-- he couldn't come up with Egyptian kidnappers, coiled tattoos of golden snakes and birds, couldn't come up with Daniel.

'So crazy, it has to be true,' he remembered his father saying, laughing too loudly one night over beer. 'It just has'ta be true.'

"Christ," John said meaningfully, "Christ on a sidecar. Please tell me you're joking." The last was a plea, despite the sincerity he heard in the other boy's voice. For some reason, the first thought to surface passed his lips as well. "So you're, what, six years old in my time?" A strange sense of loss caught in his throat, sliding down, cold and burning.

Softly, "Yeah."

"So, what-- we're in 1983, now?" John tried to laugh a little, "Tell me who won the past ten Super bowls and I could be rich."

"Probably not," the younger boy said, his brief chuckle the only indication he'd heard John's last sentence. "Think about it-- these people have lasers... and when I saw, you know, her, we were in a room full of all sorts of things I've never seen before. They could be from further in the future."

"Really, really further," John shuddered.

"The walls were also decorated with hieroglyphics... I didn't get a good look, though," the last was said apologetically.

"You can read hieroglyphics?" John heard the murmured affirmative from the other side of the vent. "Wow. Very cool."

A blush seemed to color Danny's voice, "Thanks."

"So, in the future, the world is run by crazy Egyptians?" John asked after a moment.

"I don't know," Danny tapped his fingers quickly against the floor. "None of this makes any sense. What do they want with an orphan and a kid from Minnesota?"

"Chicago," John correct automatically.

"My point still stands."

"I dunno... maybe..." A thousand images flashed through John's mind. Greentown on Mars, aliens that looked like those you'd loved and lost; lumbering, mechanical Martians against the setting sun; a future so grave and decadent that its citizens could only thrill themselves with the barbarism of the past. "Maybe it's like in the pulps... maybe they're looking for fresh meat or blood or DNA."

Danny seemed to consider this, "That tracks with what the woman said."

"Which was...?"

"She said I'd be the father of a magnificent race."

John couldn't help but make a face, darting a finger through the vent to briefly touch Danny's. "Creepy."

Small and fervent, "You're telling me."

They allowed silence to settle over them for several minutes, listening and matching the rhythm of their breathing. The initial shock of the idea seemed to slide off John's skin like summer sweat, leaving only disbelief and the ever-present ache for home. He cleared his throat, casting about, holding onto triviality and humor with a grip that scared him stiff.

"Alright. If you could live forever, but you had to spend one day as a fish first, would you do it?"

Danny almost giggled, "That's the silliest thing I've ever--" He broke off suddenly.

"Danny?"

"Listen!" the other boy hissed. The was a release of air, and Jack had been in the dark so long that even the tiny bit of light that filtered from Danny's cell through the vent hurt his eyes. Footsteps, low, deep voices over foreign words. And, though John's capture could have only have been a few days prior, his isolation made even that strangely unreal. He opened his mouth to speak but found fear instead of words-- he could only close his eyes when Danny quickly squeezed his fingers, skin slipping away by centimeters, and was gone.

The waiting was worse than the darkness, worse than his sense of isolation from before. John sat staring into the nothing, occasionally whispering for his friend and receiving no reply. The sense memory of human touch played over in his mind, emphasizes, arguing for its reality and urging him to hold on. People held on-- they did that, for amazingly strange and varied reasons, and now John did it, too.

Grandpa held on, the visage of his dead wife staring compassionately down from her perch upon the mantle, decades and decades dead of trying to bare a third O'Neill son.

Pa held on, while Mother walked the path between her study and the kitchen like a collection of delicately jingling bones. He kissed her dry cheek when even John could see it was just numbers back there behind her-- he married her and loved her, though rare strange was the indication that she loved him back.

Jeannie Cronour, the girl in the apartment downstairs, held onto the soft, peach fuzz skin of her baby, slogging across the city each day to serve coffee and overpriced donuts to dull men in suits. She walked with her fatherless child in the forest of skyscrapers, taking each day like the next opponent in a fencing match.

John held on, because he wanted to see the sunrise over Grandpa's lake again, jump off the pier and feel the rush of cold, to haunt the halls of PS-112 just one more time, waiting for that letter from the USAF.

__

(And Danny, who knew what Danny wanted to do? John didn't want him to sit, lonely, with only a gibbering shadow for company.)

For a few minutes, he tried to count the actual seconds passing-- in his own head, it seemed to echo off the walls, painfully, reminding him of how long it had been since he'd seen anything. Felt anything, really, except the floor and...

_(Danny's fingers, trying to grip strongly, to reassure.)_

'Dear Pa,' he thought, thinking of the postcards and censored letters his father sent. 'Am having one hell of a summer. Kidnapped by weirdoes-- possibly aliens-- from the future. Feel like my life has turned into a Asimov novel. How are you? Your severely dislocated son, Johnny.' He quirked his lips in amusement before mentally adding, 'Ps. You worried about me being lonely this summer, but don't. Have made a name friend-- name of Danny-- from 1983.'

Hand in his pocket, John fingered his army knife once more, trying to remember the exact details of the last postcard his Pa had sent. A picture of a jungle river, or something, with bright blossoms and murky water. Finally, curled up and miserable, he fell into uneasy, shadow-laden dreams.

(Yeah, a jungle river. He and Danny wade in the shadows, splashing, and in the dream he knows what Danny looks like even though he'll forget when he wakes up. The sun is hot and the water so thick it feels like it's own entity, and they're laughing together right up until he sees a man-- a soldier-- come out of the jungle. He shouldn't panic, because the soldier is American, but all he can do is step backward as he looks into a mirror of angry brown eyes.)

He woke, and Danny was still gone.


	3. Gone Is The Time

NOTES: The chapter contains non-graphic mention of the sexual abuse of a minor. Please read with caution.

All mythological reference taken from Barbara G. Walker's "The Women's Encyclopedia of Myths and Legends", though any animosity between Maat and Hathor is purely fictional. Thanks so much to the lovely ladies of jackslashdaniel, alphagate and gateway for the encouragement!

As always, feedback would leave me gravely in your debt.

_ ****_

One Familiar Face 3/?

by Meredith Bronwen 

They had a rapport, Jack thought-- not for the first time-- as Daniel continued outlining what he knew and could infer about the natives belonging to his latest artifact. Jack watched with a carefully bemused expression as the archaeologist moved his slim hands, nodding on occasion and pausing to ask Daniel fairly obvious questions just when the younger man became sure he wasn't listening. Daniel's voice was expressive and sure, genuinely eager to impart the knowledge he'd just acquired, and--though parts of Jack's mind might detour on a random thought or question-- part of him was always listening to Daniel. In any other life, the man would have been a story teller; Jack tried to snort at his own romanticism, but he remembered the eyes of the Abydonians, watching Daniel, listening, because when Daniel talked he did so with his whole self.

"So what are we talking about here?" Jack asked as they picked up their trays in the commissary. "Furry samurai?"

Daniel rolled his eyes, "Armor fashioned to go over heavy furs. The harsh climate of PX-762 affected even their style of warfare. While Tokugawa Japan offers the closest equivalent to the ridged social and militia hierarchy of the people on PX-762, it evolved to that point under a totally different set of circumstances. For example, it was perfectly socially acceptable-- even expected-- for people to eat the dead."

"Daniel," Jack laughed a little. "We're about to eat. Spare me."

"It was just an example," the younger man said, head turned down to hide his smile. "The natives believed that, should a woman consume the flesh of one of the warriors of the tribe, his soul would be reborn in her next child. The practical side, of course, is that they waste absolutely nothing. It's interesting to see how the more Asian reverence for the elderly reconciled with the Northern Arctic understanding that the old and infirm slowed the rest of the tribe."

"Alright," Jack said, sliding into his seat. "I'm so not going to PX-cannibal-town--"

"PX-762."

"--whatever-- any time soon," he gestured vaguely at his graying hair. "And how do you and Carter remember all those numbers anyway? Say 'Land of Light'-- I know what you're talking about. Say 'Tollana', and I remember perfectly. But if you mention PX-," he made up a number, "645, I have no clue."

"Maybe that's because you never went to PX-645," Daniel pointed out. At Jack's blank look, he added, "That was SG-3-- the primarily insectile rather than mammalian evolutionary track."

"Giant bugs? I would have remembered..." The Colonel fixed Daniel with a sharp look, and got an endearing quirk of lips in return.

Daniel's eyes twinkled. "Gotcha."

Shaking his head, Jack spent the next few minutes rebelliously focusing on his food. Lunch consisted of chicken strips, barely-mashed potatoes, and-- for Daniel-- blue Jell-O.

"Don't tell me Carter has you hooked on that stuff, too," Jack said, eyeing Daniel's tray dubiously.

"Sort of," Daniel ducked his head, "it's better than what they pass off as yogurt, here, anyway." They sat closely on one of the benches, Jack aware of Daniel's closed eyes and considering expression as the younger man bit into his chicken. "What?" Daniel asked when he caught the glance, "I like chicken."

"You think everything tastes like chicken," O'Neill emphasized his point with a wave of his spoon. "Don't you dare tell me that blue Jell-O tastes like---"

No matter how many times the gate alarm sounded, Jack imagined it would always assault his ears-- by design, it wasn't a sound one got used too. He remembered the outpost in Iraq; how the sound of far off mines exploding-- whether by intent or simple weather changes-- brought every soldier to attention. Daniel flinched, dropping his chicken strip.

"Headache?" Jack asked sympathetically.

"Low blood-sugar," Daniel flinched again, "Shouldn't have missed lunch." Jack nodded, turning his attention to Sgt. Davis' voice as it warbled over the loudspeaker.

"Unauthorized gate activation!" There was a near-breathless pause, "Receiving Tok'ra IDC."

"That'd be us," Jack nodded towards the door, reaching over towards Daniel's tray as the archaeologist began to walk away. "Here," he pushed a chicken strip into Daniel's hand, grinning. "To go."

"You're insane." The younger man shook his head, taking a bite all the same. Jack put his hand on the small of Daniel's back, ready to lead him away.

"Nope. Just think where you'd be without me around to--"

(Sense memory. Full immersion, like the first swim of the summer, the water so deliciously chill.

"Just think where we'd be without each other, Danny--" he brushed the fine hair away from his friend's face. He was young, and the sun was coming up over a lake Daniel had never even seen. The younger boy just smiled, biting into a strawberry as he dangled his legs off the dock. Jack leaned in and )

the smell of strawberries was overwhelming, and he was forced to finish lamely, "help ya." Daniel looked at him with concern as they stepped under the buzzing elevator lights, but Jack just shifted uncomfortably and watched the other man quickly finish off his pilfered snack.

"Hello, trouble," Jack commented dryly as he and Daniel entered the briefing room, gracing Anise with his most apathetic glance. She blinked at him, brown eyes uncomprehending, as he took a seat next to General Hammond, passing the pot of coffee on down to Daniel, who gratefully filled his mug. Down the table a ways, Jacob Carter was greeting his daughter, and Jack nodded his hello.

"So," he said when everyone was settled and exchanging vaguely wary looks. "What can we do for you, this time, Jake? World you need saved? Goa'uld you need killed? Or just guinea pigs for another experiment?"

"Colonel," General Hammond scolded, though it lacked heat. He switched his gaze to his old friend. "As nice as it is to see you, Jacob, I think it's safe to assume this is not a social call."

"No," Jacob shook his head, hiding a smile when Jack eyed Anise significantly, elbowed Daniel and muttered, 'Thank God'. "Though I dare say this mission is as much in your best interest as it is for the Tok'ra. Perhaps more so." Jack and Daniel exchanged glances, while Teal'c's face remained, as always, impassive and calm.

"Go on, Dad," Carter said when her father took a breath and looked at those assembled.

"It is... difficult to explain," Anise offered, making an abortive motion with her hands.

Jack's smile was just a show of teeth, "Try."

"Over the ages, the Tok'ra have... lost... a lot of things," Jacob picked up, "quick evacuations, attacks, sabotage and so on. With the necessity of secrecy and limited knowledge, we were not aware of the gravity of this situation until recently."

Anise nodded, "One of the greatest Tok'ra, Maat..."

"Daniel?" Jack asked, raising an eyebrow. General Hammond nodded as well, and Daniel bit his lip before speaking.

"Maat is the Egyptian goddess of Truth and Justice."

Jack smirked, "And the American way?"

"She was also mistress of the underworld," Daniel said, eyeing his friend with bemused disapproval. "In earlier Egyptian mythology, she weighted the souls of the dead against a feather to ensure their purity of heart. She was also known as Tiamat, further East. Her mercy and council could be sought even when other goddesses would turn their backs." He glanced up at Anise, "It's not surprising that she would be a Tok'ra, considering she was supposed to be the embodiment of righteous thought and the only one qualified to judge others. Doesn't exactly sound like the Goa'uld, huh?"

"Indeed it does not, DanielJackson," Teal'c nodded, before addressing Jacob. "However, it is known to all Jaffa that Maat was driven off Earth by the efforts of Ra, Hathor and Osiris. By all reports, she later died trying to protect her newly-born clutch of larval Tok'ra." Dark, determined eyes met with O'Neill's, "It is told as a parable of the 'gods' inescapable power."

Jack grimaced, "How warm and fuzzy."

"This much is true," Anise confirmed. "Maat died in vain, and her children were slaughtered in the thousands. It was not until one of the lesser goddesses, Egregia--"

"Fountains and childbirth, right?" Jack asked, amused. Daniel nodded and rolled his eyes.

"-- rebelled," Anise raised her voice a little, "that the Tok'ra had a chance for any long-term survival."

"Legends also say that Maat died protecting the location of a secret chamber in which she had hidden a very powerful device," Jacob paused, "one that had taken her five thousand years to perfect."

"What sort of device was this?" Carter asked, her posture betraying some of her interest.

"It is not known," Anise demurred. "All we know is that the machine was very powerful, and a threat to the kingdoms of all Goa'uld. Ra, Maat's father, sent her sister Hathor, along with Osiris, to retrieve Maat and the device. Hathor's orders were to bring her older sister back to Earth alive for questioning, yet by all reports, Hathor forced Maat to watch the vicious slaughter of her children, before murdering Maat herself and-- so the stories say-- eating her heart."

"That Hathor's a gem, alright," Jack grimaced.

"Recently, an unidentified tracking beacon-- one of the few to survive the our long struggle-- began to emit an energy signature once more."

"Took us a month to figure out what it was for," Jacob said with dark humor, "but, as best we can tell, the beacon was smuggled back to Egregia on Earth by Maat's remaining followers. Should Maat's secret chamber ever be opened, the beacon would alert the Tok'ra that the machine's sanctuary had been breached."

"Someone has indeed found the chamber," Teal'c said in a voice that was anything that but questioning.

"And now they have access to a powerful new technology," Carter raked a hand through her short hair.

"You have no idea what this device is used for?" Hammond asked, frowning at Jacob's answering shake of his head.

"You know," Jack said, conversationally, "how come these people always hide devices of 'great power'. How come they never destroy them? We're always running after this ancient deadly machine, that mysterious weapon. They should clean up their own mess."

"Well, we would be out of a job," Daniel pointed out, before turning back to the elder Carter. "Is it possible that the chamber was breached by accident?"

Jacob bowed his head briefly, eyes flashing gold. "It is unlikely," Selmac said. "We have traced the beacon to a planet on the very edge of Goa'uld territories. It has long since been stripped of all resources that would interest the System Lords. Only a few of them would know of Maat's old haunts, or lend any credence to stories of her machine. Ra--"

"Dead," Jack said, smile more than a little triumphant.

"Osiris--"

"A possibility," Hammond considered.

"Ba'al--"

"Who's attention is currently focused on a border dispute with Kali," Anise put in. "And..."

Daniel muttered, so softly only Jack seemed to hear, "Oh, no."

"And Hathor," Selmac finished, folding his hands.

"She's dead, too," Jack said quickly, looking in askance at the rest of his team. "Right? She's a popsicle. I saw it."

"It is possible that you only managed to kill the host body," Anise said. "If one of her Jaffa had retrieved the human shell in time, the Goa'uld itself could have been saved, provided a new host was acquired quickly enough."

"That's a pretty big if," Jack said, aware of the sudden rigidity of Daniel's posture. Reflected in the gateroom window, Daniel's face seemed only a little pale, expression betraying nothing, but Jack felt a prickle of sympathy along his skin, none the less. Hathor's name could only bring images of flames and Daniel's vacant gaze, ready to display mockingly, should Jack close his eyes. Daniel, numb, listlessly drinking soup in Jack's kitchen, sleeping fitfully and screaming for the next three nights. Later still, shivering from the false cryogenic suspension, eyes unfocused and endless, unable to believe that Jack was alive. Very gently, Jack moved his knee so that it touched briefly against Daniel's. Only the other man's quick glance told him that the small offer of comfort had been received.

"We have sent Tok'ra operatives to the planet," Selmac informed them. "Their preliminary report showed Jaffa of various origins, including several who's System Lords have given them standing orders to shoot the other party on sight."

General Hammond coughed into his hand, "We've all seen Hathor's ability to... procure... an army." He turned to Jacob, who's eyes still glimmered with Selmac's age. "How long until your scouts report back?"

"Not for another two days. We need details of the area around the chamber, as well as any intelligence on what Hathor's plans might be. Currently, the System Lords consider her deceased. Now is the perfect time for her to rally forces without attracting suspicion."

"Wonderful," Jack said distastefully.

"In the mean time," Anise drew herself up regally, "I have brought with me all the information the Tok'ra currently possess regarding Maat, be it known fact or simple legend. This includes some of Maat's notes, written in code-- I'm afraid they are incomplete and frequently interrupted. I would like to collaborate with Dr. Jackson to see if we can't garner more information about what Hathor may currently have in her arsenal."

Daniel blinked. "Sure..."

"MajorCarter may offer her technical assistance as well, should we come upon actual plans. I very much doubt, however, that we will be so lucky."

"In exchange for...?" Jack drawled.

"Your full assistance in an all-out attack on the chamber." Jacob's voice, soothed back into it's regular cadence, sounded just slightly apologetic. "The Tok'ra are willing to share research when the machine is secured."

"For now, I'll authorize Dr. Jackson and Anise to collaborate on the Maat findings," General Hammond conceded. "We really don't know what we're dealing with here, people. In two days time, when the Tok'ra have more tactical information-- and if Dr. Jackson's research indicates such action-- we'll talk about an actual assault." The older man sat back, nodding to himself, and then to Jacob. "Dismissed."

Awake, John lay without moving. He'd heard the telltale hiss of food being delivered, could even smell the faint tang of whatever provided his sustenance, but his limbs were long and heavy despite his recent sleep. His body was tired in a way that came purely from being caged, like the bored, menacing flick of the captured tiger's tail. In the voiceless, empty dark, it was hard to believe in color, in all the things he'd heedlessly ignored, speeding away from school and into summer's high heat. His mind was quick and awake in ways his body was not-- it was like the low sort of sleep you get in the morning, aware of the alarm but unable to translate thought to action.

('Keeping looking for a way out,' his father's voice urged. 'Come on, Johnny. No time to laze about.')

John's sleep had been fruitless and shallow-- it couldn't have been more than an hour or so since Danny had been taken. But then, his perceptions were skewed, helplessly entangled in the dark and the fearsome clawing of his own mind. They had to bring Danny back-- they had to, because who knew what that bitch was doing to him, out in the bright world where everything was real. They'd bring him back, and he and John would lay on their sides of the vent, talking, poking fingers through. Maybe Danny'd have a chance to see more of the hieroglyphs, or to catch some clue as to what was going on. Danny was a smart kid-- he'd get the intelligence, and then John would know what to do with it. He would know because it wasn't just his sanity riding on this anymore.

"One hot night," he sang suddenly in a loud, bored voice, "while we were all in bed, Missus O'Leary left the lantern in the shed. When the cow tipped it over, he winked his eye and said," John fairly shouted, "it's gonna be a hot time in the ol' town, tonight." The cell was empty, but too small to give any sort of satisfying echo, and John gave up with a disgusted snort. He was about to finally pull his limbs to motion, when the hissing sound of fresh air made him go completely still. Nearby, the vent lit dimly with borrowed light, and he heard footsteps stumble close. Darkness swallowed everything once more, but John inched quietly towards where the luminance had been, breathing faint with disbelief.

"John?" Danny's voice was a small, careful treasure.

The older boy's throat was dry, "God, Danny." He touched the tip of Danny's finger with his own, alarmed by how much even that single digit was shaking. "Are you alright?"

"She took a 'sample'," Danny said, as if he was in a high tower and only watching the frantic movements of the small figures bellow.

"She didn't...?"

"No," said with apathy. "She gave me this stuff. It made me... well, think of when you have to hold your textbooks over, um..."

"Yeah, I get you," John said, trying to force a laugh. "S'what math books are for, you know."

"It wouldn't stop," Danny went on listlessly, as if he hadn't heard. "It made me dizzy and nauseous, but she wouldn't stop touching me. She says she's harvesting my 'code of life'."

"She's being abusive," John said harshly. "I don't care where or what year it is." He forced his voice to gentle, knowing his anger could only touch Daniel, not the woman who so callously used him. "God, Danny..." But there weren't any words, just Danny's labored, uneven breathing.

"It's gone now, at least," the younger boy said at last. "But I still feel sick."

"Just lay down," John advised. "Think of someplace nice."

Danny snorted, "Where?"

"How 'bout.. your house in Egypt?"

"We had an apartment," Danny said. "We went on a lot of digs."

"Cool. I live in an apartment, too. Most the year. Did you like it, in Egypt?"

"Yes," dreamily, "everyone was so alive, there. The past was real. And our house... there were so many books... the kitchen always smelled like strong, Egyptian tea. I would lay where the sun came in onto the floor-- it was really warm."

"Sunning, like a reptile?" John asked, voice wry.

"Hmmm..." Danny clung to the shifting edges of the memory. "My stomach hurts."

"The stuff she gave you, what did it--"

For a moment, John didn't even register the stabbing column of light as it fell across the floor of his cell. All he could think of was that sound, the 'whoosh' of the door, and Danny, curled in on himself.

'They can't take him again,' John thought wildly, before the brightness finally forced his eyes to close. Rubbing harshly at them, he looked up at the bulky shadows in the threshold. 'Don't say anything. Don't let them know that you and Danny can communicate.' He was pulled to his feet, hauled under the armpits away from his dark corner, feet dangling off the ground. The guard's expressions were vacant and maybe a little desperate.

'Eyes front, kiddo,' he told himself, forcing his eyes to take in every detail. 'Now's your chance.'

They carried him out into the sterile, jaundiced light.


	4. The Red Queen

NOTES: Sorry about the lapse between chapters! Hopefully this will be worth your wait. Thanks to Eve, Kat, Dusty, and Amber for the gentle reminders. As always, my gratitude goes to Ayashii for beta services. If you have the time, I would greatly appreciate any feedback you should choose to send.

_ ****_

One Familiar Face 4?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

It bothered Jack that Daniel no longer looked out of place in the locker room.

Face no longer framed by golden-brown hair, young Dr. Jackson had a few more muscles on his form and endless years behind his bright blue eyes. He held his books and his ordinance with equal ease-- always willing to talk, to understand, but also capable of pulling the trigger. Like a hero of epic, both brave and smart and strong, he was neither one thing or the other. He was Daniel, shaped, evolving like patterns of ice on glass, warm all the same.

A smile on Apophis' ship, cheek running with red; Daniel's firm support on Netu, where the air was rank-- stiff with the smell of heat and dirt and blood.

In the blood, they say-- they say a lot of things about blood. How it will out, how it will tell, how it's thicker than water. Family blood, O'Neill blood, which-- as far back as anyone cared to remember-- had been spilled on battlefields, shed in loyalty to countries, flags and Kings. Maybe that was why Jack could never imagine being anything but a soldier. Great-grandfather and grandpa in the cavalry, Pa in the Navy, and now the latest O'Neill son off to war, in the sky, in the stars. Progressively climbing away from terra firma, Jack considered wryly, remembering his own brief battle of wills with his father.

What's wrong with the Navy, son? We got a damn fine Navy.

__

(And, years after the fight was settled, Jack could imagine another boy saying, "It's not the cavalry I want, Dad-- not the Marines, or anything else. Only the Navy will do.")

Only the Air Force, only the sky-- the ceiling of his dreams, baring the stars like thick glass. The engine of a fighter plane louder than himself, than his screaming, than his sullen, increasing anger at the world.

He didn't remember a lot about being a child-- the green tile kitchen, the incessant sound of Mother's chalkboard algorithms, theories and proofs. Late nights eating sloppy jelly sandwiches, the only lights from the bathroom and Her study. He could remember reaching for the sink to fill a glass of water, his legs so small and no one else around to do it for him. A vague parade of Aunts and Uncles while Pa was on active duty.

_('D'you feed him, Anrin?' they asked, like he couldn't hear, like he was some kind of dog, requiring simple maintenance._

And click-click, Mother and her numbers. They'd say her name again and prompt. 'Oh? Why yes, I think I did. I'm almost sure I did.'

'She thinks she did!' they'd hiss and crow in the hallway, unaware or uncaring that the sound carried right to Jack's ears. 'Thinks she fed the kid, well. Doesn't know up from down, that one, let me tell you.')

He'd lay on the blue rug in the living room, some Italian baritone warbling out from the record player, kicking his feet and drawing in thick black crayon. They sang in Latin and German, the voices trapped in garish album covers-- the colors were always bright, and the back always held some small-printed summary of what was going on. Pa's portrait-- the good one, with his crisp and dashing in full uniform-- would stand sentinel on the mantel, Jack would overwhelm the click-clicking of chalk with foreign voices, always amazed. They could say anything, in those high vibrato notes, swear to kill or flee or never love again, and it would be okay.

He was a soldier, it was in his blood, and blood would tell. It would flow and carry him away from Sara, from Charlie playing soccer in the humid summer evenings. He would look at his son and feel torn, because he just couldn't see that little face shaded by camouflage.

He didn't want his son to be a soldier. Let him be doctor, lawyer-- hell!-- Indian Chief, but his little boy would never belong in a war. Charlie wasn't a fighter, he was a doer; build, shaped with his hands... Sara's influence, Jack guessed. He was stubborn and strong, but the image of some older boy with a gun in his hands had always struck Jack with a sick sort of dread, almost deja'vu.

__

(Deja'vu-- you knew. You could see him with a gun 'cause one didn't belong in his hands. Didn't want him in a war because you couldn't see him kill, didn't want him to fall in ditch somewhere you couldn't even spell, and my friend, you got your wish.)

They talked alot about Mother's intuition, about how, sometimes, she just knew. But there was more to being a father than just standing around, feeling removed as the baby grew out of something taken from inside.

There was a lot more, if you bothered to stick around.

Never should have had a gun in the house, never should have had one around the son you knew wasn't meant for that sort of thing. Every year would pass and Jack could see Charlie growing clearly in his mind's eye. Playing, working, arguing, until the dream ended as it always did-- with blood and tears, and the certainty that one of these days the would was gonna kick Jack, gonna get him down, and there wouldn't be any getting back up again.

'So what do you get?' he asked himself, pulling on his civs in the locker room. Across the bench, Daniel was stretching and hiding a yawn-- Jack never looked, except when he did. He got Daniel, that's what.

_(Daniel blinking at Dr. Langford, two days into the Stargate research, looking at the clean clothes in her offering hands._

The young man had fumbled, "Oh-- oh it's..." and Jack couldn't help but roll his eyes. Yeah, kid, it's been forty-eight hours since Langford picked you up off the street, and you're still wearing your rained-on rumbled shirt and tie.

Daniel saying he could do it, get them there and back again-- stance firm, eyes determined in front of a General who radiated skepticism.

'Take him with you,' West had said. Oh-- good one, sir! That's a joke, right? Daniel was smart-- hell, Daniel was frick'n brilliant-- he had fought, deciphered, and gotten them back home. But he had also lain prone on the too fine sand, had welcomed a foreign beast and laughed, like a boy with his dog.)

'It's gonna end, worse than the last one, worse than anything you've ever screwed up before.' Voiceless words, carved into Jack's bones, waking him up at night as they rose to the surface of his skin. 'Don't you dare touch him, 'cause it's all gonna end.'

And that-- that was exactly what Jack got.

"I need a beer," Jack said faithfully, running a heavy hand through his hair.

"Paper work getting to you?" Daniel smiled over his shoulder.

"And Freya," Jack put in with a significant glance. "She gives me the willies. Her and her Amazon hand-me-downs." The younger man merely 'hmm-ed' in sympathy, engrossed in changing his shirt.

"Still," Daniel said when he finally worked himself free, "I am looking forward to seeing the materials Anise brought with her. The more I learn about the Goa'uld who assumed each god's persona, the clearer the picture of Ancient Earth becomes. It's fascinating, really, when you consider that we're living in the ruins of a truly epic and terrifying past, yet we don't even--"

"Daniel?" Jack said expectantly, raising his head when the sentence continued to simply hang. The archaeologist had his back to the locker mirror, frowning over his shoulder. "Daniel?"

The only response was a brief string of Abydonian-- swear words, by the tone-- as Daniel's puzzled look deepened.

"Daniel!"

"What?" Blue eyes blinked quickly as Daniel turned around. "I'm sorry, Jack... I just..." His expression turned inwards, "I think I'm loosing my mind."

"Join the club. I'm a charter member," Jack snorted, at first only faintly disturbed. He pulled on his jacket and turned, ready to warn his friend about the temptation of pulling an all-nighter. Instead, he found himself staring at the younger man's back, trying to place what had so disturbed Daniel before. The skin was faintly tan, as always, dotted with scars and lines that Jack had long learned not to ask about, but...

Something was wrong.

Daniel's flesh ran smooth, from the right side of his spine and down along to his hip, inviting and utterly unmarked. Jack knew, though-- hated himself for knowing-- that there was, there should have been, a long, faded welt of red. A lash mark, from someone's clumsy but enraged hand-- the mark Jack had trailed his finger along once, while Daniel slept, muscles twitching in dreams of Nem's machine.

'You're looking at it in the wrong light,' Jack told himself wildly, 'it's there, your eyes are going, or...'

But it wasn't there, and it never had been; a remembered lashing without a scar. Jack could see it in Daniel's eyes when the other man looked up, the carefully curtailed panic in those open, determined eyes. The Colonel's stomach turned.

"I have to--" he said weakly, making an abortive motion with his hands, "-- to go."

Now Daniel's voice rose just slightly in concern, "Jack?"

"Have to go." He was taking quick steps backwards, making for the door. "Don't," he added clumsily, "worry. Play nicely with Anise. I have to--"

"Go. You said. Jack--"

But Daniel's voice was fading at the threshold, and Jack was moving, steps quick and economical, hiding any sense of real hurry. Levels on the elevator, down and down, ignoring any curious looks, vaguely praying he wouldn't run into Carter or Teal'c. In his mind's eye, Jack could only see Daniel, remember the feel of that scar under his one, trembling finger. His whole hand was shaking--

__

(with rage, and he held himself carefully still. The sun was dim and coming through the windows in shrinking columns. Daniel's face was hidden by long, summer-light hair, but he could feel the younger boy watching, before the blue eyes lowered in shame.

"Who's the bastard that did this to you?" Jack demanded, fist tight around the bottle of ointment. He sat down on the couch where his friend was spread out, gently touching one slim, trembling shoulder. The skin was chill, with warmth lingering underneath.

"It's not important, John," Daniel sighed. "Usually I can get out of the way fast enough, but..."

"You shouldn't have to!" Jack almost shouted. He leaned in, pressing his cheek to Daniel's hair.

"It's no big deal," the younger boy reiterated. "I'm sixteen, I can take care of myself." Voice withered, Jack simply nodded, uncapping the bottle.

"Ointment-- found it in my Mom's room. Doesn't smell like flowers or anything, I promise," he said gruffly, touching scars that were much more fresh than Jack had ever really seen. A week or two old, at most. His hands-- had his hands ever really been that slender?-- were gentle, hesitant as he touched Daniel, sickened by the healing pain and awed by the trust. He rubbed gently over shoulder-blades and mid-back, but the longest, ugliest of the lot was absent even in this strange and broken dream.)

Jack shook his head and drew a deep, firm breath before rapping his fist against the General's door. He was still fighting through mist and disorientation, past and present no longer oil and water, but infinitely less tangible. More real. He wondered if it showed on his face-- that he was crazy, that he was loosing it-- so he kept his own expression carefully blank as Hammond called for him to come in.

"Sir," he said, unaware of what exactly he was planning until the words had actually left his mouth. "Request permission for a thirty-six hour leave."

"Colonel?" The General raised his head, eyes penetrating, reading Jack's body language as well as his words. "Among other things, this is a bit sudden..."

"I'm sorry, sir. This is just..." he cast about for a word, "it's important. It's very sudden, and very important, and I need you to let me go."

Now Hammond's face changed, just briefly, and Jack could see what the older man's granddaughters would see. It lasted only momentarily, but it lurked there even as Hammond said, "Are you alright, son?"

"Yes," Jack said quickly, and then, "No, sir." He shook his head, "Whichever answer will get you to let me take leave, sir."

Dubiously, "Thirty six hours?"

"The Tok'ra aren't due back for forty-eight," Jack pointed out. "I need... I need to get out of here. I can probably be back in less than thirty six," he thought for a moment, "but definitely more than twenty-four."

Concern now clearly visible, the General reached for his pen. "Can I ask where you're going?" That was easy. That was the only answer Jack knew in this whole goddamn maelstrom of questions.

"Minnesota." He was going there to look, because he couldn't be loosing it, not now, not after all this time. To remind himself of what had happened... and what had not.

"I'll authorize your leave," Hammond said, almost kindly. "I trust you..."

"Thank you, sir!" the Colonel replied, wondering why he couldn't feel more relieved.

"-- but I would, at some point, like a better explanation," the older man said firmly.

'You and me both,' Jack thought wryly, but all he said was 'Thank you, General' before he headed for the door.

He was trying to keep track of turns and corridors as the guards drug him from his cell, but John's eyes were weak, and he spent a good deal of the trip squeezing them closed against the abrasive light. At last, when he could hold them open for longer than it too to simply blink, he began looking for exits, for windows, for anything unique details along the heavy golden walls. The turns seemed endless, halls composed of black tile and glittering inscription, but John saw few guards. At last, he was drawn through an arched threshold into a larger room, draped in linen and expensive silks. It was so large and overwhelming that, at first, he couldn't help but miss the young woman seated carefully amongst the cushions.

"Um... hey," he said, simple acknowledgment-- because she was slim and small, the freckles on her face so hastily covered up and the embroidered robes so ill fitting that he could hardly imagine her as a threat. She looked almost mousey, eyes far away, strawberry-touched orange hair pulled, frizzy and elaborate, away from her cheeks.

"O'Neill," she said, and her face changed so dramatically that John blinked, wondering if he was still looking at the same person. Something stirred under the flesh of her expression, something strange and so much older than the fit the lines and angles of a slim farmer's daughter. The chin tilted up regally, motion calculated like that of a marionette, and she rose in a wave of crimson folds. "Yes," she said, having circled him twice, "you will do nicely."

"Look, Lady," John said, instinctively drawing back, despite the guards' firm grip on his upper arms. "I don't know who you are, but I think you have the wrong O'Neill. That's with two 'l's," he tried very hard to smile, "common mistake."

"Silence!" The woman narrowed her hazel eyes, leaning in close. "You would not recognize me in any case, would you?" she said, mostly to herself. "You have caused me great damage, Colonel O'Neill-- forced me to," she gestured distastefully at her own body, "scrounge. But," she smiled in a way that did not fit her face at all, "I am strong, and now in a position from which no one will expect an attack." Her gold-tipped fingers touched his cheek, "I believe you are much easier to control, in this form."

"See," John babbled, watching her eyes flash the brightest of yellows, "I know you had the wrong guy. I'm not a Colonel-- I'm barely old enough to drive! And Lady-"

"We are called Hathor," she informed him regally, brushing a lock of hair past her shoulder. "And you will call us... Goddess." That smile again, and John shuddered.

"Don't think so!" he bit out, casting his eyes about wildly.

"You are a strong warrior, O'Neill," her praise seemed to rub against his skin, making him squirm. "You have already defeated many of the System Lords. Such a young age, I have found you at now... so pliable. You are a bit old to receive your prim'ta, but you will indeed become our First Prime, as we originally decreed." Her hand, so cold, lingered against his stomach.

"Get off me!" John said, kicking wildly. "You bitch!" His mind was full only of Danny, of his friend's voice trembling in the long and fruitless void. Swallowing his fear, he raised his chin up to salvage his pride, "Hands off the merchandise." Hathor's lips were horribly red, every experienced motion rolled off her innocent form like someone's idea of a horrible joke. All he could feel was the heaviness of the slim army knife in his pocket; any moment they were going to pat him down, find it, and then he'd be out just one more thing when he needed every little advantage he could get. She was close, smelling of heavy perfumes, and smoke. Her hands were on his shoulders, and all he could think of was Danny, already labored breathing thick and clotted with her closeness.

The knife seemed to ache. The guards were massive, but she was comparatively small-- like a thug on the street, he could overpower her, maybe...

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(and sink that knife right into her heart, right were the collar of her silken robe reveals those pale, freckled breasts.

-I've never killed anyone before!-

'Before this is over, you just might have to.' The knowledge came from some calm, already resigned place inside of him. 'First time for everything, you know.')

"The code of life grows strong within us," Hathor murmured, close to his ear. "We will lay our clutch... and then prepare you to accept one of our young. The Nish'ta does not work on one so young, and..." she smirked, "inexperienced, but there are other ways of ensuring loyalty, as you will see." Her gaze seemed far away, full of bitter dreams, "We may find, soon, that the past has shifted irreparably. Then I shall be more powerful than ever before."

John fought against the desire to close his eyes-- he didn't want to see her, or anything, anymore. He wanted to be back, submerged in the thick black, where he could listen to Danny and feel the quick, gentle touch of a finger.

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('Don't give her the satisfaction,' Pa's voice advised, and seemed to echo, 'Oh, son-- son, you are in some deep shit now.'

'Tell me something I don't know!' John thought wildly.

--the knife...--)

"You're barking up the wrong tree, lady." He looked Hathor directly in her strange triumphant eyes, voice steady as stern as he could bend the young tones to, "you should just send--" (us!) "--me back to where I belong. I'm not worth the trouble, and I don't know nothing about nobody."

"You are afraid," Hathor observed cooly, tilting her head to the side. "I have not had the pleasure of witnessing it so clearly on your face. It is most pleasing." She turned, all flashing hues of orange and ruby, waving a dismissive hand. "Return him to his cell, and prepare my nest." She stood, back straight, as a platform began to rise out of the floor. The light caught each other its polished, metallic angles, and John forced himself to look at it, without thinking about the fact it was a coffin. "No one is going to rescue you, young O'Neill." The room rang with her confidence, "You will come to accept your new, honored role."

His mouth was dry, filled with the ashes of words, but he tried to spit anyway-- his distaste landing pitifully on the black, polished floor. Hathor seemed to find this amusing; she was rotting from within, something spoiling what otherwise might have been a pleasant giggle. She waved once more with her bejeweled hands, and the guards lifted him away with little effort. He found their grip on him transferred to a single fist on the scruff of his neck as one of the pair marched off. He dangled, held in front of the remaining guard like some naughty puppy, his mind flashing with a thousand small, racing thoughts.

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(Only one now, Pa's voice urged. You're not gonna get a chance like this again.

--the knife...--

Yeah, right, you stupid little shit! They've got lasers!)

The guard navigated the corridors with ease, unconcerned by the limp young man he carried, eyes turned far inward. John waited a few more measured breaths, before he began to struggle violently, kicking and swinging, though the collar of his shirt dug into his neck. At first the guard only seemed annoyed, but John kept kicking, trying to hit anywhere near the waist. The was an audible rip as he tumbled to the floor, a blue scrap of fabric hanging from the guard's fingers. He rolled quickly, hand diving into his pocket, surging upwards while the guard was still looking at him in smug, half-amusement. John aimed for the stomach, where the guard's short, ceremonial breastplate gave way to a linen kilt. One of his opponent's large hands closed around his neck, an instant crushing weight; the knife remained lodged in skin, while John's hand fell away to clutch at his windpipe. In a move of pure instinct, he angled himself back and kicked for the crotch, eyes swimming in pain. The first kick missed, and something clattered to the floor, but the second one hit its mark. John fell again as the guard doubled over. Taking one deep, desperate breath, he crawled towards the object on the floor. The laser was coiled closed-- this close, John could see that it was wrought in the image of a snake. Knees shaking, he stood, trying to open it with clumsy, hurried hands. The guard bent back up, almost standing straight, his steps heavy and menacing towards the young boy, before John heard a satisfying, metallic pop. He aimed, watching in fascinated horror as the blue energy leapt out to steal the guard's consciousness. The large body crumpled to the floor, even as John-- unprepared for the weapon's slight recoil-- fell backwards, landing heavily on his behind. The past few minutes seemed to rush in than, thought replacing instinct.

'Oh, shit,' he thought, looking at the red handle of his Swiss army knife, planted in white cloth like some triumphant explorer's flag. His stomach rolled but settled under his forced command. Bending down, he covered his hand with the cuff of his sleeve, pulling at the blood-slick handle of his blade. The dead body's stomach seemed to ripple under the linen, a terrible, inhuman shriek echoing down the long corridor. Panicked, John fired again, relieved with the sound stopped immediately. His eyes roamed over the rest of the form and he quickly grabbed the ring of small, gold strips from it's fastening at the dead man's side. At last, he took off at a run, trying to make his footsteps as quiet as possible without wasting the brief time he had.

The first turn he took was a bust, leaving him plastered again a wall, choking down his fear as two guards marched past. He hurried back, trying to orient himself, before he finally saw twin black doors, positioned some ways away. He pressed frantically at the rounded glass button to no avail, before he looked at the golden strips in his hand. To him, the tiny symbols looked like mere scribbles,

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('Hieroglyphics', Danny would say.)

But there was a row of the same number of symbols etched neatly above the release on the door. John flipped quickly through the strips, glancing up, trying to match. Selecting one, he slid it over the row on the door, watching with unspeakable relief as the glass button glowed an approving blue. He slammed it again, watching the door hiss open.

Light spilled through the threshold, merciless on the gray flooring of the cell, but the illuminated space was empty. Tasting his heart on the back of his tongue, John took a step in, eyes searching the deep shadows.

"Danny," he whispered pleadingly, "Danny-- it's John!" Curled on the floor, a form at first edged near the vent, then seemed to realize the new direction of the voice. Danny's glasses-- round and precariously perched, flashed in the light from the hall as he stood, stepping fully out of the dark recesses, finally more than a voice.


End file.
